


Birthwright

by textsfromhannibal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Catgirls, Dragons, Drama, F/M, Halflings, Magic, Romance, Vampires, Werewolves, Xenophilia, Zombie Hero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 21:04:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12284394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textsfromhannibal/pseuds/textsfromhannibal
Summary: Lady Belise Sendé has spent her entire life relying upon the charity and tolerance of those who would happily deny her both. But when the forces of a rebel lycanthrope calling himself Eidron the Uncrowned slaughter her beloved father, leaving her half-brother to assume command of Chateâu Oncleaf, she knows the game has changed. Left without a champion in her own family, Belise quickly comes to realize that in order to survive, she must attract a patron of her own. And there is only one other man—one THING—she has learned to trust.The legendary monster, heir to the throne of Targone and commander of the Vampire King’s armies—the undead Prince, Valdur d’Aeivernais.Set in the 1960s, Birthwright is a fantasy romance that is anything but typical.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So, um... *shy* ...this is an original work I've been working on when I should be writing TFH. I hate writing into a void, so I thought I would share it with all of you. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> If you need visuals for your reading:
> 
> Valdur: Mads Mikkelsen (duh)  
> Belise: Emily Browning  
> Auburn: Barbara Palvin  
> Gus: Lee Dong-wook

The last time Prince Valdur d’Aeivernais had laid eyes on the eldest Sendé child, she’d been a teenager. Back in ’58, if memory served? He’d been a mere General, then, courting the displeasure of both King Renald and Prince Terik by traveling into the province of Aurden on personal business. Lady Belise’s father, Count Georg Sendé, was an eccentric, a mortal known for treating monsters with respect and consideration. Indeed, Valdur had found a close friend in the man.

Now that Georg was dead, Valdur found himself cherishing that friendship all the more.

Scalding away his grief with a drag of his cigarette, Valdur focused on Lady Belise as she entered the room. He was pleased to see that Georg’s daughter had grown up pretty. He remembered meeting her for the first time back in ’58, her innocent baby face and round eyes. The plain girl would have been easy to overlook, save that she hadn’t shied away from his presence, as so many mortals—women especially—tended to do. On the contrary, Belise had made no attempt to hide her fascination with him. It had amused Valdur, during the weeks he’d spent at Chateâu Oncleaf, to reward her curiosity by taking himself Very Seriously. Her questions had been respectful, and thus he had answered them; indeed, he had spun out answers that were a tad dramatic, a little grotesque, just for the pleasure of watching her hazel eyes grow wide.

Belise had caught on to his game by the end of his stay. On the final night of his visit, she had dared to glance at Valdur’s reflection in his wine glass at dinner. To learn the truth for herself.

The next morning, when they had said their goodbyes, Belise’s face no longer seemed so innocent. Overnight, her eyes had become gentle. They were full of things Valdur couldn’t identify. Things he didn’t particularly _trust_ himself to identify.

Valdur had found himself growing fascinated, in turn.

It was Belise who sent the first letter. Valdur’s personal guard tried to throw it away, erring on the side of security; it was by sheer luck that he happened upon it in the wire bin next to his secretary’s desk at the Bureau de Guerre. The letter was a simple one—thank you for being so kind to me during your visit to my father, soon I’ll be heading off to college in Daguste, may I impose upon you for some advice?—but the mundane, human simplicity of it had charmed Valdur to the core. He had written back, a page to match hers, suggesting she pursue a course or three in exotic languages and recommending an interesting book about the history of enchanted armor he’d read recently.

After that, Belise’s letters came with a regularity that made him wonder if she had any other friends. King Renald had scoffed to learn that his chosen heir spent hours each week playing pen-pal to a distant Targonian college woman, but writing Belise was one of the few things Valdur _liked_ to do. For six years, she offered him a simple recounting of her studies and her professional accomplishments. For six years, he suggested books that she might want to read, movies she might like to see, advice on the courses she ought to take. Her letters were almost maddeningly formal, for she never spoke of parties or sorority mixers, never prattled on about the young Lords who doubtless called on her or the television shows she liked to watch, never gushed about the shops she had visited. Lady Belise Sendé was as serious, perhaps, as the world perceived _him_ to be.

Yet, she was Georg’s daughter. His most beloved child. And so, in spite of himself, Valdur had let himself grow fond of her.

Now that they were in the same room together at last, he had to admit… the excitement that came from seeing her again was almost too much to bear.

Stubbing out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, Valdur excused himself from the circle of diplomats that had gathered around him and wandered toward the tall, golden doors. They had been rescued, one of the diplomats had informed him, from an old abbey located along the edge of nearby Lake Lucif. The Sisters of Quietude had once worshipped the goddess Arista; the doors were carved with masses of tentacles tangled about tendrils of curling hair. They complemented the rest of the room, the long hall with its saffron walls and crimson curtains.

Valdur’s chosen position placed Belise ahead of him. Maintaining a respectful distance, allowing the crowd of mourners to ebb and flow between them, he watched as the woman drew to a stop and lifted one trembling hand to her mouth. In the center of the room, on an iron catafalque gilded with yet more tentacles, lay Georg’s body. The Final Peace had not yet begun. A drake employed by the Sendé family, a massive man covered with scales, was just arranging the traditional iron crucible over a charcoal brazier. Casually, Valdur stroked his right thumb along the undersides of his fingers. He wore two gold rings. The first was a permanent fixture. The second was new to him, meaningless, an offering for the crucible.

Ironic that _he_ would take comfort from participating in this mortal ritual.

When Belise raised both hands and tapped her fingertips beneath her eyes, doing her best to pat her makeup back into place before her tears could wash it away, Valdur moved to her side. Assuming she had access to an endless supply of tissues and that, for whatever reason, she had chosen not to avail herself, he didn’t offer her his handkerchief. Instead, he reached into his jacket and drew out a golden cigarette case. “Here.”

Belise’s dark lashes fluttered at the sound of his voice. Looking up at him—all the way up, for Valdur was a good foot taller than her—she managed a wondering smile. “Your Highness.” Her voice was raw and breathless. “No one told me you were coming.”

“You know I hate being called that.” There was no heat in Valdur’s voice. Instead, he suddenly founds words something of a challenge. Georg’s daughter, it turned out, was _not_ pretty—she had grown up beautiful. Belise’s baby face, while still round and fae-like, was now set off by lovely cheekbones and a cleft chin. Her nose, once too large, was now noble; her lips were full and soft. Her brown hair carried light in it, arranged in gleaming curls that skimmed the bateau neckline of her simple black dress. She wore no hat, no veil; the country girl had gone off to college and come back with a modern wardrobe, as well as a whole host of modern ideas.

Valdur approved of the new fashions. For with a touch of shadow and mascara, Belise’s eyes seemed to glow beneath the slant of her side-swept bangs.

Rather than apologize for using his honorific, Belise uttered a low, sardonic laugh. A second later she pressed her lips together, ashamed of producing such a noise right in front of her father’s dead body. Pushing Valdur’s cigarette case away with a limp motion, she said, “I have no title, anymore. Forgive me if I’m a bit jealous of yours.”

“Merchon has officially stripped you of it, then?” Valdur concentrated on the weight of the cigarette case in his hand as he tucked it away, hoping to exercise control over his temper. Merchon Sendé was a waste of flesh. Unfit to bear his father’s name.

But he was Georg’s full-blooded child. His natural and legal heir. Belise, though his eldest, was a bastard.

“He didn’t have to. I stopped using it the day Papa was killed.” Belise wrapped her arms across her body and cast a longing look at Georg’s corpse. “He only called me Lady as a joke, you know.”

“He called you Lady because of all his children, you most deserve the honor.” Valdur’s words were a shot in the dark. He knew nothing of Lady Galine, Georg’s youngest. Still, Belise hazarded another wan smile.

Her smile, too, was beautiful. Quiet and unassuming.

Valdur told himself he felt a mentor’s affection toward her.

“Walk with me, Lady Belise,” Valdur offered. Taking a breath, Belise planted her hands at her sides and nodded. He led her through the crowd, toward the balcony that punctuated the end of the hall. Combined, their presence attracted attention. Aristocrats, vampire and mortal alike, had journeyed to Chateâu Oncleaf out of both respect and fear. The fact that the rebel forces banded together under the flag of the wolf calling himself _Eidron the Uncrowned_ had managed not only to attack a diplomatic envoy in Tavince, but murder a _Count_ had thrown the country into a blind panic.

Though Valdur, unlike his vampiric siblings, couldn’t read minds, he could feel the tension in the room. He would have been content to ignore it, but his preternatural senses allowed him to hear every whispered word.

_“Prince Terik is weak. How long until King Renald stops with this farce, and puts Valdur back on the border where he belongs?”_

_“Terik managed to drive Eidron’s forces into Lit du Ceph.” “_

_Am I supposed to take comfort from the fact that Eidron’s men are on the other side of the border, in Valaast, where we can’t finish them off without starting another war?”_

_“Never mind that. Did you see the way Valdur looked at Sendé’s body? Tell me the poor wretch isn’t laid out like a hog on a buffet…”_

Gritting his teeth against the insinuation that he would eat his friend, Valdur shut the glass doors that stood between the hall and the balcony outside. Cool night air filled his nostrils, chasing away the lingering odors of tobacco and whisky, bringing with it the quiet curl of Belise’s perfume. She smelled clean. Soft. Now that they were away from the crowd, he could tell that she didn’t smoke.

“Do you have any news about Eidron?” Belise said the rebel’s name without fear. As always, Valdur admired her courage.

“Nothing that you don’t already know.” Valdur turned to find Belise sitting on the edge of the balcony, watching him in turn. The narrow skirt of her sheath dress rode up above her knees, a fact he did not allow his imagination to linger upon. “He continues to send threats to Helìmort. He challenges the supremacy of vampire rule. The legitimacy of my father’s dynasty. I’d call his ravings drivel, but I don’t want to disrespect your father’s sacrifice.”

“My father died stupidly. Everyone’s thinking it, but no one will say it.” Belise’s eyes grew bright again. Blinking away tears, she looked off into the night. It was the height of summer, and all along nearby Iio Bay, lightning played with the water. The rain had hung back for days, and the air was thick with humidity. “What mutterings of the Gods convinced him it was a good idea to march his men into Tavince? He didn’t have the _right_.”

“Perhaps not,” Valdur allowed. He longed to sit beside her, to comfort her, but the whispers had done their work. In the forty-two years since his second birth, he had admired many women.

None had admired him in return. For good reason.

Now vaguely unsettled by his reaction to Belise, Valdur was careful to impose distance. Walking to the balcony, he set his hands on the railing and looked toward Iio Bay. “But your father was a good man. When Duke Lorn of Tavince was overpowered, what choice did he have except to help?”

“He could have remained where he _fucking_ was,” Belise spat. The sweet tang of blood played across the roof of his mouth, and he assumed she was blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“I was built for the Army,” Valdur told her, with some amusement. “I’ve heard far worse.”

Belise didn’t respond. When a few minutes had passed, Valdur turned to look at her, and found her eyes fixed on his face. Though they were full of pain, in their depths he could see the same gentle acceptance, the same warmth that had been there six years ago.

It frightened him a little.

“I have something I want to ask you,” Belise announced, curling her hands over her knees. “But I’m not certain if I should.”

“You’ve never hesitated to ask me anything before.” _And I have been nothing but an open book to you_ , he wanted to add. But he held his tongue.

“Not a question.” Belise took a shaky breath. “A favor.”

“You should ask me for favors more often.” When had they grown so comfortable with one another? Belise seemed to have no difficulty with his accent.

Belise dropped her eyes to her hands. On her right index finger, like him, she wore a ring. Silver, decorated with a swirl of tentacles and a gleaming pearl. Valdur recognized it as one Georg used to wear, and was relieved to see that Belise had managed to come by _something_ of his.

As if she could hear his thoughts, her hands curled into fists. With a quiet ferocity, Belise said, “I am my father’s eldest child. I want to be the one to perform the Final Peace. If I stand up and demand it, Merchon will have me escorted out. He’ll convince everyone I’m hysterical. But if _you_ demand it…”

“Then it will be done.” Valdur did not seek to finish Belise’s sentence. He sought to reassure her. He couldn’t allow himself to become captivated by her, but by the Gods, he _could_ give her this.

With a few words he could give Belise her father’s heart, enrobed in molten gold and eternally secure.


	2. Chapter 2

As her wet hair sectioned itself in the vanity mirror, Belise stared at the drop of gold now suspended from her neck and wondered how many molecules of her father’s heart it contained.

_< <The usual, Miss?>>_ Grief had rendered her maid paler than usual. The shimmering particles that comprised Tille’s physical body were barely visible, her aura nothing but a flicker of milky light. At the moment she was more dress than mouth, more eyes than face. The hairbrush was vivid in her hand.

_< <Just set the ends,>>_ Belise decided. She was grateful that _exspiravit_ didn’t require her to open her mouth very far. Growing up with Tille had made her fluent. _< <After tonight, I’m not going anywhere special.>>_ With a sad nod, Tille reached for one of the foam curlers on the vanity and began twisting a tendril of Belise’s hair around it.

Three hours ago, the idea of marching into her father’s funeral and asserting her right to perform the Final Peace had been nothing more than a rage-fueled fantasy. Now, Belise wore the evidence of her courage on a chain. Though it was a morbid thing to want, she had won the right to carve out her father’s heart and destroy it. To render his body useless to any necromancer or soul harvester.

She told herself that this victory made her strong. That in the eyes of the funereal crowd, she’d shown herself to be worthy noblewoman of Aurden. That when the tale was told, someone—at least _one_ person—would lament the fact that Merchon Sendé now held everything, and Belise had received _nothing_.

She knew she was lying to herself.

_< <I overheard Royse talking to Dona in the kitchen.>>_ Though a spirit, Tille had never been fond of silence. _< <He said that he was ordered to drive Prince Valdur’s car into the carriage house. Er, the garage.>>_

The relief Belise felt upon hearing this made her eyes sting. Doing her best to affect disinterest, she asked, _< <He’s staying overnight, then?>>_

_< <Miranda was told to prepare the east wing for him. Other than that, I don’t know the particulars.>>_

_< <Why would he stay?>>_ Why had he come? Why hadn’t he _told_ her? Why had Valdur suddenly been standing beside her as she mourned, all heat and height and hands she dare not touch, lest she feel what she really knew to be there? A comfort and a torment to her all at once?

Gods. Belise felt like she was going insane.

_< <I think Merchon had something to do with it,>>_ Tille noted as she rubbed a touch of pomade into the ends of Belise’s hair. But Belise was no longer listening. Her turbid thoughts were in the funeral hall with her father. When the evening began, she’d wanted nothing more than to linger beside his body, to stroke his black hair away from his brow until the time came to carve into it. Before the blade emptied him out and the fire consumed him, she would take what comfort she could from stolen seconds, stolen trinkets. Things to which she, Count Sendé’s bastard child, had never been entitled.

But then, Valdur—her beautiful monster—had appeared. Unexpected… but so very welcome.

Gods, how she’d ached to touch him. To take the sleeve of his jacket between her fingers and tug on it like a child seeking attention. Even now, with an intensity that frightened her, Belise wanted to rush to the east wing and burrow her face into Valdur’s broad chest. She wanted him to wrap her up in his arms and hold her as she cried, to stroke her hair as she confessed that she’d had nightmares about this moment from the time she was a child. She’d always _known_ this would happen—that one day she would be left powerless, penniless, utterly alone in the universe.

_Morctusbraas_. She hated herself for her fucking _weakness_.

All her life, Belise had kept her emotions in a cage. Like a swarm of shrieking crickets. As a bastard with no one to champion her except her father, she had learned early on not to give her half-siblings or her stepmother, Countess Eldira, anything they could use against her. Count Georg Sendé had raised her to be brave and loving, had given her an education to rival any Lord’s, and yet circumstance had condemned her to a life where she could not share those virtues with her own family. Her mind, her heart, her thoughts and her fears—everything had to remain locked away. Within the walls of Chateâu Oncleaf, no one knew her except her father, his inhuman servants, and….

Prince Valdur. A little.

And Gods help her, she had fallen in love with the man for his willingness to learn a little about her. To _talk_ to her. For six long years, now, she had loved him.

How pathetic.

_< <You’ve done enough.>>_ Tille tipped her head to the side, confused. Mustering up a weak smile, Belise waved her away and took up a curler. _< <I can finish.>>_

_< <Are you sure?>>_ Tille’s voice pitched down, her throat glowing with emotion as she spoke. _< <I won’t have much longer to serve you, after all.>>_

Belise knew this, and felt powerless to stop it. Still, she nodded and twirled her hair around the curler, returning her eyes to the mirror. _< <I just… want to be alone.>>_

_< <Of course.>>_ With motherly care, Tille set her hands on Belise’s shoulders and bent down to kiss her cheek. Tille’s touch was an icy tingle, a breath of December air. Not unpleasant. _< <Sleep well, little one.>>_

Despite herself, Belise turned around to watch Tille as she swept out of the room. In death she wore a dress like a wedding cake, with tiers of ruffles and rosette trim. _< <You’ll never stop calling me that, will you? You were seventeen when you died!>>_

_< <And that was sixty years ago.>>_ With a smirk, Tille shut the door behind her.

Once she was alone, Belise tugged the curlers from her hair and hurled them atop the vanity. She ripped the chain from her neck and captured the drop of gold between her trembling fingers like a rosary bead.

Dropping her head, she let herself cry.

She’d done it. Gods help her, she’d done it. And her hands would never feel clean again. The weight of the stone blade the Priest had handed her—the legendary Black Blade, symbolic of Sendé power, supposedly hewn of Ceph’s very flesh and the only thing capable of killing him—still seemed to press against her fingertips.

Without Tille to distract her, the memories threatened to suck her down. Tired of fighting them, Belise surrendered.

At the end of the funeral hall, the glass doors had been thrown toward the night. In the ceiling, the round vents skillfully hidden within the chandelier medallions had rattled as they sucked up air. With Merchon seething behind her, with Lady Eldira’s sharp eyes boring holes into the back of her head, Belise had set the Black Blade down so she could unbutton her father’s shirt. The room had swum with heat, both from the hundreds of mourners and the crucible smoking with hot metal. Though she had a strong constitution, at the sight of her father’s gray, bruised skin, Belise wondered if she might faint.

For an interminable minute Belise had paused, considering what she was about to do. When she finally curled her hand around the blade’s hilt and lifted her head, Valdur had met her eyes. His were warm, rusty brown, like caramelized sugar left too long in the pan. With a soft nod, he’d removed one of his rings and dropped it into the crucible, to melt and mingle with the rest of the offerings.

The message had been clear. _You can do this._

And so, she had. With a strength she wouldn’t have said she possessed, Belise buried the blade in her father’s rotting chest. It cut through flesh and bone and gristle like it was made of fire. With her bare hands, she picked out broken pieces of her father’s ribcage and set them aside. With the blade’s assistance, she cut out his heart and dropped it into the crucible. The gold cooked it, burned it, filling the room with a rancid stench that had made her eyes water and her throat tighten.

The heart must always be first. After that, the gold didn’t care.

Grief and disgust squeezed tears from Belise’s eyes. Half-blind, shaking, she had dug into her father’s corpse like a carrion creature looking for the choicest morsels. His stomach, his lungs, his liver—every bit of it went into the fire. To be consumed, to be encased, so that not even the ashes of his mortal shell could be used in a spell.

This was a kindness. Brindled in gore, Belise reminded herself that this violent task was the ultimate act of love.

When she had tired, when the room was hazy with smoke and she was truly blind, she had felt Alum’s rough hand on the back of her neck. The drake had served her family for over a decade, and like Tille, Belise trusted him implicitly. Stepping back on legs that wanted to tremble—she had worn short, boxy heels for this reason—she had accepted the cleansing cloth the Priest handed her as Alum took the full, sloshing crucible in his clawed hands. A few seconds later, her father’s flesh began to sizzle and pop beneath the onslaught of molten gold. Alum had poured it carefully over the body, spread the glowing liquid over his face, his limbs. Gold ran over the catafalque to pool on the floor; the Priest had stepped forward with a set of tongs to rescue the drops that would be partitioned out amongst Count Sendé’s blood relations.

As Belise had lifted the cloth to her lips and breathed in deep—it was fragranced with _cyp_ wood and citrus, a sign of the Priest’s infinite kindness—a royal guard appeared at Valdur’s side. The Prince turned to speak with the young man, and the small fires kindling along Count Sendé’s body threw his features into stark relief. Valdur hadn’t aged a day since Belise had seen him last—but then again, would the glamour he wore ever age? His face was strong, bull-like, but graced with a certain rustic elegance. Alpine cheekbones cast shadows over his strong jaw and thin, but eloquent lips. If men’s faces betrayed their true natures, then Valdur was both a warrior and an aristocrat, a berserker and a surgeon. Though he was only forty-two—her mind always coupled his age with the word _only_ , a habit she hadn’t been able to shake—his voice sounded ancient. Deep, steady, made for short and brutal sentences.

He was, and would always remain, the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on. And Gods, how she wanted to press herself against him and forget everything she had just done.

Lost in reverie, lost in grief, Belise hadn’t noticed when Merchon crept up behind her. She jerked when he leaned close and whispered in her ear, “You’ll be out of here before I wake up tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear? Your fucking maid, too. Unlike Dad, I’m not about to give money to monsters when there are humans out there looking for jobs.”

Though he hadn’t turned away from his guard, Valdur’s eyes flashed, reflecting the red light emitted by the rapidly cooling gold. A thrill raced up Belise’s spine as she realized that he’d _heard_ Merchon’s little speech.

He’d heard, but what could he do?

A thousand thoughts had chosen that moment to assault her. Belise wondered if she looked different to Valdur, now that she was older. Or if he saw all mortals as insignificant insects. She wondered if she trusted herself to open her mouth, to respond to her hated half-brother. She wondered if she would ever get the smell of her father’s burning flesh out of her nose. She wondered where she ought to travel, next, with the understanding that it was time to play Career Girl. Or should she wander back to Daguste with her tail tucked between her legs? Take up with that professor who’d asked her to marry him?

Overcome, Belise had turned to go, stumbling in her haste to get away from Merchon. The Priest stopped her at the door, presenting her with a drop of gold on a chain. With tears in her eyes, she had thanked him. Clutching the chain her hand, she’d fled to her room, not even stopping long enough to speak to Tille. But the old ghost had known. When Belise had staggered out of the shower an hour later, skin pink and throat raw from vomiting, a pile of fluffy towels and a pair of pajamas were waiting for her on the sink.

Belise curled up inside those pajamas now, letting the wide cuffs fall over her hands and feet. Sitting on the floor of her balcony, she let her head loll against the railing as she watched the lightning from Iio Bay reflected in the windows of the east wing. There were no lights on inside. Valdur didn’t sleep—he’d shared that bit of information with her when she was only eighteen—so she wondered why he chose to sit in the dark.

She wondered if he was actually there.

She wondered if any of her questions mattered.


	3. Chapter 3

“I think we should just take a few minutes to clear the air, is all.”

For lack of breakfast, Valdur took a long drag off his cigarette and told himself he would not kill Merchon.

“That business yesterday was… troubling.” In the morning light streaming through the high windows, the new Count Sendé looked even younger than his twenty-one years. Like Georg, he had black hair and eyes of mossy green, appropriately reminiscent of the swampy waters of Lit du Ceph. Unlike Georg, those eyes did not shine with warmth and intelligence. The boy had inherited Eldira du Cainon’s sharp features, the cruel poetry of her lips. “Understand, Your Highness, that we were not told to expect you…”

“Did my secretary fail to send you an engraved announcement?” Pointing to the newspapers spread out before him—Valdur had taken his morning stroll around 5 a.m., and thus relieved both the paperboy and the milkman of their burdens—he puffed on his cigarette and breathed out. White smoke billowed not only from Valdur’s nostrils and mouth, but from a small point directly beside his nose. Most people stared when this happened, so Valdur could hardly hold Merchon’s rudeness against him. “Your father’s death was in all the papers. His secretary took the time to write me. Did you think his oldest friend would boycott his funeral?”

“My apologies, Your Highess. But—”

“Don’t call me that.” Crushing his cigarette out on a nearby teacup saucer—he never drank, aside from the odd shot of whisky or glass of wine—Valdur did his best to swallow his rising temper. “Prince Valdur is bad enough.”

“My Prince.” Merchon’s smile was faker than his mother’s hair. With a nervous movement, he adjusted his glasses. “I apologize. My father was a private man. I haven’t seen you since I was…” He had to think about it. “Fourteen?”

“And does absence count as a lack of friendship? In case you didn’t notice at the time, there was a war to mop up after.” Normally Valdur took pains to slow his speech whenever he was outside of Helìmort. His accent was thick, infected by a language no longer spoken; the mortal humans of Aurden and Tavince, especially, had trouble understanding him. In Helìmort there were vampires old enough to remember when his first language was commonplace, as well as those who spoke with a hundred other accents just as impenetrable. They all got by.

Contempt made him speed up. Talk as fast as he had—mercifully enough—discovered he could with Belise. Just for the amusement of watching Merchon’s brow knit and his eyes grow dull.

“The main thing is…” Merchon steadied his nerves with a breath, and reached across the table for the crystal butter dish. “I wasn’t expecting to have to relinquish the Final Peace to my father’s daughter. The fact that she had you ask for the privilege is so disturbing, I can barely find the words to express it. It almost feels like a violation.”

His father’s daughter. Not his sister.

Breaking with tradition, Valdur reached for the steaming silver coffee pot. He needed something in his stomach, or he was going to entertain serious thoughts about consuming Merchon from the throat down. “Lady Belise is his eldest child. In life, your father claimed her as his own. If the law had allowed, he would have left her a portion of his estate.” Georg and Valdur had discussed it many times, the unfairness of mortal inheritance laws. “Her mother is dead. She belongs to none other but the Sendé family. What happened last night was both proper and just.”

Merchon’s eyes flashed. “And what about _my_ mother? Forced to watch a woman in no way related to her by blood sever and preserve her husband’s body?”

This argument had merit, at least. “An unfortunate occurrence. No one condoned your father’s indiscretions. But I like to think he atoned for them.” The coffee burned Valdur’s throat on the way down. He would regret this later. “And certainly, Count Sendé, you would not have a child punished for the sins of her parents.”

Merchon’s bitter expression said he longed to do just that. “I would have royal privileges go to those who deserve them.”

“As would I.” Determined to break away from this topic, Valdur gestured toward the papers again with his half-empty cup. “Which is precisely why I requested your permission to remain here. I loved your father. As you assume his title, his responsibilities, I feel it is _my_ responsibility to be of assistance to you.”

“You requested to remain for breakfast…” Merchon frowned. “Wait. You intend to stay longer. Don’t you?”

“For a fortnight, I think. Long enough for a crash course in leadership.”

Merchon would not be swayed so easily. Forgetting his buttered toast, he argued, “And at the risk of sounding like an uppity child… what makes you think I _want_ your help?”

“This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what is required of you.” Setting his cup aside, Valdur flipped through the pages of the _Targone Eye_. “I am a warlord at heart. I was created to think strategically. And you have quite a few stars aligned against you at the moment.”

Merchon scoffed. “We’re no longer at war.”

“But we soon will be, if you do not listen to me as you once listened to your father.” Merchon went quiet; Valdur wasted no time. “You must investigate your father’s death, strike a blow against Eidron the Uncrowned and aid in his capture, or you will be perceived as both heartless and weak. Your father’s troops were killed, as well, and their families will not respond kindly to a lack of action. Should we be forced to pursue Eidron into Lit du Ceph, there may be war with Valaast. If Valaast is harboring Eidron willingly, as some surmise, then there _will_ be war. Either way, as leader of one of the provinces directly on the border, you must spearhead the upcoming efforts… or be seen by the rest of Targone as a waste of flesh.”

Merchon’s face went pale as he considered his people turning against him. The whole of _Targone_ turning against him. To his credit, the young man seemed to sober up quickly enough. “What do you suggest I do?”

“For now, under the guise of mourning, gather your men close to you. There were Lords among your father’s troops, and their sons must inherit. Fill any positions in your father’s court that death has emptied. Do not trouble yourself with considerations such as, oh, firing the monsters your father chose to employ as household servants.” Merchon’s mouth dropped open, and Valdur repressed a sudden urge to snort. “I hear everything. Best you learn that now.”

Curling his hands atop the table, Merchon growled, “Fine. But Belise… after the little stunt she pulled last night, I _will_ have her gone.”

“No, you won’t.” To Valdur’s surprise, he managed to hold back the rage that wanted to edge into his voice. “Your father’s efforts have branded your family as enemies of Eidron. The risk is too great that Eidron’s forces may try to abduct Lady Belise if she leaves the protection of Chateâu Oncleaf. If men are killed trying to save her, and the world discovers that you were responsible for her exile, the sin is yours. If you make _no_ attempt to go after her, the sin is yours.” Standing, Valdur buttoned his blue suit jacket. “The first rule of being a bad man, Count Sendé, is reputation management.”

“I’m not a _bad man_ ,” Merchon shouted, jumping to his own feet.

“We’re all bad men at heart. In order to change, you must decide what you will be _instead_. Will you be a good man, Count?” Valdur walked through the double pocket doors leading out of the breakfast room, and turned to pull them closed. “Or a smart man?”

 

* * *

 

 

Chateâu Oncleaf was formidable, one of the oldest structures along the levy holding back the tides of Iio Bay. Its outer wall was circular, crafted of ballast stones; its gardens were overgrown and lush. Outbuildings dotted the space between the grand old fortress and the wall, housing cars and coal, blacksmiths and cobblers. The gravel drive that had once journeyed from the main gate to the front entrance of the house had long ago become a road that led through the property, circling around to rejoin itself.

Valdur found Belise on the road in front of the house, her pocketbook held above her head in an effort to stave off the rain. The clouds had finally broken open. With her free hand, she struggled to shove her single suitcase inside the boot of her black coupe.

“Let me help with that,” Valdur said, coming up behind her. Once again he took her by surprise, and Belise whirled around with a gasp. With little ceremony, he took hold of her suitcase and pulled it out of the boot, setting it down on the driveway.

“What are you doing?” she wondered, her voice every bit as rough as his. He’d been smoking too much recently, as well as throwing back beverages that threatened to scar and dry his flesh; Belise had been emptying herself out like a fountain of tears.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Belise was sublimely beautiful in the gray morning light, though he didn’t dare tell her so. The night before she had been polished, poised; now her rich brown hair was in disarray, gathered in a lazy chignon at the base of her neck. He’d thought her pretty with makeup, but now realized his error as he looked at her naked face. Instead of her tailored dress, she wore burgundy cigarette pants and a chiffon blouse. A droplet of gold sparkled inside the neckline of her brown raincoat.

Belise pursed her lips. It took her a few seconds to find the words she wanted. “Merchon told me to leave.”

“I know.”

A suspicious glint entered her eyes. “I _know_ you know. That’s why I’m wondering what you’re _doing_.”

“I took care of it.”

Her nose wrinkled. “ _How_?”

“Forgive me, Lady Belise, if I must declare that I can no longer play mentor to you.” He nodded toward the house. “I trust that your father did his best to raise Merchon in his own image, but before I take my leave of this place, I plan to make sure that child is capable of defending my border.”

Slowly, Belise lowered her pocketbook. Raindrops landed on her hair, forming a halo befitting a daughter of Ceph. For a moment she stared up at him, all wondering eyes. Then a smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and she rested two fingertips in the middle of her lips in an effort to contain it.

Valdur envied those fingers.

“You’re going to teach Merchon how to govern like an actual Count?” There was amusement in Belise’s voice, and Valdur’s male ego preened. “How to fight?”

“Of course.” Shrugging out of his suit jacket, Valdur held it up over her head. Belise drew in a sharp breath, and once more the scent of her blood teased the roof of his mouth. This time, he was forced to ignore the gnawing hunger the scent rooted in his belly. “I exist to act on behalf of the country. Activities along the border between Targone and Valaast are of keen interest to me.”

For a minute or more, Belise was silent. And yet, her eyes never left his face. With a shyness he wouldn’t have known to ascribe to her, she lowered her attention to his plaid waistcoat, then to his mud-splattered shoes. There, she seemed to find her voice. “Papa was always too easy on Merchon. If you want my opinion, that is. I think my education was far more rigorous.”

“From what I’ve seen, I agree. But for all your father’s progressivism, for all my power… you cannot take control of Chateâu Oncleaf, Lady Belise. The King would never allow it.”

The woman’s expression hardened. Turning her pocketbook over in her hands, kicking at the gravel, she asked, “And what if I don’t _want_ to stay here?”

“I must insist. For your own safety.”

“You think Eidron’s men will try to use me as a lure? Or kill me to punish Merchon?” Belise’s laugh was mirthless. “Those wolves will be barking up the wrong tree.”

“That’s my fear, yes.” Gods, Georg had taught his bastard well. Or perhaps it was all the history books she’d read at _his_ urging. “And please know that I choose that word with care.”

Belise didn’t look at him. The scent of her blood mingled with her floral perfume was beginning to drive him mad.

“Two weeks.” Seized by a sudden impulse, Valdur settled his jacket over Belise’s head like a cloak and lowered his right hand toward her chin. Just before he touched her, she stiffened, and he cursed himself as a fool. She knew what he was. She’d seen for herself.

Returning his hands to his sides, Valdur reminded himself that Belise would never look at him the way he was swiftly coming to look at her. That she was only three years older than the child he now sought to shape into something resembling a man.

He had no business with his old friend’s daughter.

“Two weeks,” he ground out. “Remain here that long. At the end, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. As long as it’s safe.”

Fixing her eyes on her suitcase, Belise seemed to consider his offer. “What if I have a request of my own?”

 _Anything_. “Name it.”

“My father’s servants. The drake you saw at the funeral last night, my personal maid… there are others. I know you heard what Merchon said about them.”

“I’ve already told him he has far greater concerns than shuffling servants around, at the moment.”

“But have you wrung any _humanity_ out of him, yet?” Anger brought light to Belise’s eyes and made her lips flush. “He’ll cast them away like garbage one day. Countess Eldira _hates_ them. It’s hard for a non-human in Targone, always has been. My father tried to help, but now…”

Even as the rain picked up, Valdur could identify which drops of water were Belise’s tears. They throbbed with heat, smelled of her. He resisted the urge to bundle her up in his jacket until there was no risk she would feel through the thin physical layer of his glamour, and pull her close.

“I will speak for them,” he promised. “That’s all I can do. Hopefully it will be enough.”

With a sniff, Belise lifted her hands to her eyes and cleared them. Against her palms, she nodded. “It’s just…” She cast her hands down with a strangled laugh, and looked back at the castle. “They’re my family. Always have been. We’ve always been the outcasts. And I have no power to help them now, and Gods damn it, that _hurts_.”

All at once, the understanding and warmth in Belise’s eyes made sense. The fact that she’d written to him, that she spoke to him without fear, that she accepted him as something of an equal. She’d seen his true face. The skeletal fingers reflected in his wine glass.

Valdur was a monster. And thus, he was an honorary member of her little tribe of outcasts. Nothing more.

As a bolt of lightning creased the sky, Valdur both cursed and blessed the way Georg Sendé had raised his daughter. And still he bent to retrieve her suitcase, slammed her car boot shut, and waved her toward Chateâu Oncleaf, intent on herding her out of the rain.

Belise was a special woman, indeed. Just not meant for _him_.


	4. Chapter 4

To this day, they called Gustave Andrén’s great aunt the Whore of Laneige. The eggs her children had hatched from were known as the Tears of Mankind. Even while she was alive, artists had depicted her with black, sunken eyes and hands that now reminded Gus too much of his boss; in those skeletal hands, his great aunt usually cradled translucent orbs with unspeakable abominations coiled inside them. Beneath the hem of her gown sat any number of horrors. Sometimes the broken bones of her own countrymen, sometimes the tattered remains of the Targonian flag. Nowadays a younger crop of painters and sculptors preferred to forego the nationalistic symbolism, content to splash the hem of her gown with gore and focus their talents elsewhere.

But long before the world made a concerted effort to erase the story of his great aunt’s early life and lay the blame for almost seventy years of war at her feet, Ullen Andrén was a young woman who dared to curl her fingers around a dragon’s claw and tug him impishly toward the makeshift dance floor set up in her family’s barn.

_“If we cannot dance where people will see us, Monsieur le Dragon, then we’ll dance where they can’t.”_

It was this memory that Gus liked to play in his mind whenever he was forced to confront his great aunt’s public image. Of the dragon who had tried so hard not to hope, and the maiden who had gone ahead and done all of the hoping for him. It was a false memory, a childish fantasy cobbled together from the guilty stories shared amongst what remained of the Andrén family in Targone—but it was beautiful nonetheless. And for Gus, it had a sort of healing power.

Shutting his eyes to block out the mural hanging outside Secretary Dis’s office at the Bureau de Guerre, Gus curled his long fingers around the edge of his leather folio and allowed himself to daydream. In his imagination, Ullen drew the creature who would become her husband, King Arctél Lyondre of Valaast, past the guttering candles she had lit for the occasion. Past the rustic posts that supported the barn, and the animal pens where her siblings’ eggs had been lovingly incubated in the straw. Underneath the hem of her long gown—what year had that been? 1894?—her feet were bare. Pixie-like. There was no music, but Ullen didn’t need any. Her steps were music enough.

In life, Ullen had been beautiful. Or so Gus had been told. Her almond-shaped eyes had been big and black, her blonde hair straight as a pin, her features lush and happy. She’d been all motion, all brightness; she’d loved as easily as she breathed. It was only right that King Arctél had fallen in love with her. That each night of his royal tour through Targone, he had found a way to fly to her side. That he had danced with her in the candlelight and eventually, Gus liked to think, hushed her laughter with a kiss. Though he was five times her size, though he was a beast built of bone and fire.

Beneath his mantle of scales, Arctél was a man. It was only right.

Though most human unions with monsters produced nothing but grief, Ullen’s mother had given birth to five children with the drake she’d married after the death of Ullen’s father. Though the world conspired to separate them—Ullen was a farmer’s daughter, Arctél a monarch; Ullen was the tiniest of human women, Arctél capable of conversing with people leaning out of second storey windows; Ullen would forever bear the shame of “lying with an animal,” Arctél would spend decades defending the “insect” he loved, only to eventually watch her die of old age long before he was prepared to follow her—the fact that royal children might result from their union must have seemed like permission from the Gods.

Gods, the _hope_ they must have felt.

“Under Secretary Andrén?”

Gus opened his eyes, and for a moment the mural hovered before him. In this one his great aunt was painted in slashes of red and black, with the blue flag of Valaast wrapped around her naked body. With her spindly arms and pointed fingertips, devoid of halfling children this time, Ullen peeled the fabric away from her body like a moth attempting to free itself from its cocoon. The effect was both sensual and terrifying.

As always, Gus wondered where Arctél was now. He couldn’t be in Targone, else every last bit of “artwork” like this would have been reduced to ash.

“Under Secretary _Andr_ _én_?”

Forcing himself to focus, Gus turned to meet Secretary Dis’s eyes. They were cold. Disinclined to forgive. Daydreaming, Gus knew, was not his offense.

His offense began with his last name, and ended with the translucent jade scales that poked above his starched shirt collar when he wasn’t careful.

“Forgive me, Secretary Dis.” Standing, Gus bowed his head. “How can I assist you today?”

“Just get in here.” Robert Dis stood back in the doorway, making room for Gus to pass by. He was an older man, portly, with dark skin peppered by freckles and a shock of white hair. He’d been turned late in life. “And let’s make this quick.”

“Make what…” Gus trailed off as he took in the state of Secretary Dis’s office. As Prince Valdur’s personal secretary, Dis was known for his efficiency and discretion. He didn’t much like the man, but Gus _did_ strive to model his work ethic and keen organizational eye. He aspired to Dis’s current position, after all.

What Gus saw… was out of the ordinary. To say the _very_ least.

Within the windowless office, papers were strewn everywhere. Books had been crammed into a series of cardboard boxes, and then apparently forgotten and shoved aside. In the farthest corner, which had once housed a limp ficus, someone had set up one of the portable shredders—a mammoth bit of machinery the size of the old teletype units still chugging away in the Bureau de Guerre’s basement. Beneath it yawned an empty box commandeered from the canteen. No longer filled with bananas, the box was now overflowing with the ribboned remains of Secretary Dis’s correspondence.

“Haven’t I told you to get a damn haircut?” Secretary Dis grumbled as he lit a cigarette. Normally, this question would cause Gus to self-consciously finger the black waves spilling over his forehead. Though they weren’t in fashion, he preferred to wear bangs. He had to do something to cover the small horns that jutted above his eyebrows. To shadow the unnatural amber color of his eyes. “You look like a damn hippie.”

Today, Gus kept his hands at his sides. “Sir…”

“I’m leaving.” As if to indicate _where_ , Secretary Dis thumped his left hand on his desk. “Because I’ve had it up to here with that bastard. I’m _done_ trying to keep up with his whims. So fucking _done_ that the light from ‘done’ will take a million years to reach me. You _dig_ , hippie boy?”

Gus did his best to parse this. “You mean Prince Valdur?”

Secretary Dis rolled his eyes. “Who the _fuck_ else?”

If invited to do so, Gus could call Prince Valdur many things. _Bastard_ wasn’t one of them. In spite of himself, the young halfling felt his temper begin to rise. “Sir, with all due…”

“See? _You_ still have some respect for that creature.” Tearing two more books off the metal shelves arrayed behind his desk, Secretary Dis crammed them into a nearby box. “You’ll do fine. Better than me. What’s forty years of service around here? Drop in the fucking bucket, that’s what.”

“If I may…” Talk of immortality always made Gus nervous. Unlike the majority of Bureau workers, he was far from immortal. “Can I ask what precipitated this?”

“He’s run off _again_!” Leaving his cigarette pinched between his lips, Secretary Dis whirled around and stabbed his right index finger into the air. “You see, he _does_ this. Despite my best efforts to coordinate that man’s life, to _protect_ him from inordinate number of people who would like to see him dead again, Valdur likes to jet off without so much as a by-your-leave. Maybe, unlike me, you can get used to it.”

“Run off?” Puzzled—a little panicked—Gus rescued the latest royal itinerary from inside his folio. “He was scheduled to attend Count Sendé’s funeral in Aurden. Then to travel to…”

“Better start rescheduling everything printed after the word _Aurden_ , because Valdur’s chosen to remain at Chateâu Oncleaf for the foreseeable future.” Plucking a piece of paper out of his leather briefcase, Secretary Dis offered it up. “Telegram just came in.”

Gus grabbed the paper and scanned it. With every word he read, his panic rose.

 

_Chateâu Oncleaf, Aurden_

_August 3, 1963_

_Retyped: Secretarial Pool, Desk 89_

_Staying here for a few weeks. Safe with single contingent of guards. Aware you will send additional even if I order you not to. Send along maps, logbooks concerning recent troop movements in Tavince and Grevaille. Aware you will inform Number Two of this request even if I order you not to. Rations required ASAP, see vetting list in left-hand drawer of my desk. Freeze-dried is fine._

_Prince Valdur d’Aeivernais_

 

            “Freeze-dried?” Gus hated the way he stammered through those two words, even as he accepted that he had lost the power to control his own voice. He cleared his throat. “Does that… does that mean what I think it means, sir?”

            “Yep. Time to hit up the local morgue.” Tucking a box under his arm, Secretary Dis smashed his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and then patted Gus’s elbow. “You’ll be doing that a lot from now on. Congratulations, _Secretary_ Andrén. You just got a promotion.”

            “But until now, I’ve just typed correspondence. I’ve never even been allowed to go on a blood run…” Ignoring him, Secretary Dis grabbed his briefcase and strode out the door. Lowering his hand, Gus swept his eyes over the utter ruin of new former office and whispered, “Which morgue? The city morgue? Is there a hospital he prefers? I don’t…”

The words danced on the edge of Gus’s tongue, just beyond the reach of his will. _I don’t know what to do_.

For a good five minutes, Gus stood amongst the detritus of Robert Dis’s life, attempting to process what had just happened. Soon another Bureau employee passed in the hall outside, turning to regard him with open curiosity. In the woman’s glasses, Gus saw the painting of his great aunt reflected in miniature.

The sight galvanized him in a way he hadn’t expected.

A short while later the enormous shredder in the corner was making slow work of both Ullen Andrén and the flag that clung to her, and Gus was searching Dis’s office for the keys to Prince Valdur’s desk.

 

* * *

 

Belise had no supernatural powers. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hear.

Too smart to disobey Valdur, too stupid to shut herself up in her room, Belise spent the day after her father’s funeral drifting from hiding place to hiding place. She had plenty of them. The window seat in the hall that led from her father’s study to his bedroom, obscured with velvet curtains and just long enough for a girl of about six or seven to sleep comfortably on nights when her father was lost in his work. The old flag post in the garden, long ago engulfed by wisteria, the interior of its wide base hollowed out by tiny, determined hands. The servants’ hall, its glass ceiling obscured by a carpet of fallen leaves, that let her dart from the main staircase directly into the kitchen.

Everywhere she went, she heard whispers. Arguments. Pain.

_“I can’t bear it. He’s letting that whore’s daughter stay_ here _?”_

_“He’s not even a proper prince. Why should I have to do what he says?”_

_“This is madness. And it’s madness to think about going after Eidron now. Gods, Lorn’s men haven’t even limped home yet.”_

_“I thought the wall was rebuilt years ago?”_

_“He has a portrait. Of_ her _. Right above the fireplace in his room. I swear to the Gods, that man is attempting to humiliate me from beyond the grave.”_

_“But there’s a wall, Maman. Along the border. Isn’t there? So how did Eidron’s men get through?”_

_“Don’t say that name to me.”_

_“Don’t say that name.”_

_“Don’t say that.”_

“Count Sendé wants dinner in his study tonight,” one of the maids noted as she skipped into the kitchen. Belise remained where she was, quiet and unobtrusive, brewing a cup of tea in the breakfast nook. The servants had let her come and go all day, demanding little from her in the way of interaction, and she was thankful for it. “He said you can take a tray to the east wing for the Prince.”

“Like hell I will,” Dona barked. She was a handsome older woman, a kitchen witch to whom Belise always took her teacups to be washed in hopes that she would see something in the dregs and speak up. With renewed vigor, she pounded her fists into the mound of dough she was working on. “That man doesn’t want normal food. Or even blood.”

“But… he’s a vampire.” The maid screwed up her pockmarked nose. “Or something like. Isn’t he?”

“When it comes to feeding…” Dona punched the dough into submission and frowned. “No. No, he is not.”

Belise knew this already. So when Valdur appeared in the kitchen long after midnight, a leather bag clutched in his hand, she wasn’t shocked. Though her heart did beat a little faster.

The man clearly hadn’t expected to find anyone up and about at such an hour. When she caught his eye, Valdur cleared his throat and shifted the bag behind his legs. Belise wondered if her beautiful monster could smell anything beyond the overwhelming odor of rosemary and lavender. In a bubbling copper pot on the stove, meat had been left to stew for the next morning. In the kettle beside it, Dona was brewing the lavender water Belise liked to use for her complexion.

“You’re up late.” Valdur’s voice matched his posture, stiff and uncertain.

“My tea won’t brew itself.” Belise tried to don a smile. It fit poorly, like one of her old high school sweaters. “I can leave, if you want.”

“Don’t.” Though he spoke the word with his usual clipped conviction, his eyes remained distant. Belise didn’t like it. “This is your house, my lady.”

“If I’m not allowed to call you by your title, then stop using mine. And _my lady_ sounds… well.” With a dry sniff, Belise pulled her hands inside the sleeves of her cardigan and drew her heels up onto the stone bench where she sat. She was still seated inside the carved breakfast nook; scooting out would be awkward.

“Lady Belise, then...”

She knew what he’d come here to do. Resting her chin between her knees, Belise shut her eyes. “Just get on with it. I won’t watch.”

Valdur remained still—though she could feel his eyes on her. The savory scent of meat drifted into Belise’s nostrils with every breath she took, and as seconds stretched out into minutes, she began to feel antsy. Her courage faltering, she heard herself say, “Though maybe I should ask… do you… I mean, do you _cook_ …”

“ _No_.” The huff of air that punctuated this statement sounded annoyed. “What kind of villain do you take me for?”

“You’re not a villain.” Belise’s shoulders sagged with relief. She wasn’t sure she could handle the greasy smell of human flesh so soon after her father’s Final Peace. Suddenly, even the aroma of Dona’s stew meat was enough to make her heart lurch in her chest, to make her throat tighten with fear and grief.

She should have followed her instincts, Valdur’s undying chivalry be damned. Opening her mouth, Belise sought to beg her way out of this macabre meeting.

But before a single sound could escape her lips, she heard Valdur’s footsteps ringing off the kitchen tiles. She held her breath, listening to the soft _thump_ of his bag as he dropped it atop the granite counter. There, the man paused. He was a superb supernatural creation, Belise supposed, but he still didn’t know his way around a strange kitchen.

For a moment, all was quiet. In that space of time, Belise made her choice.

The man was no danger to her. And he had to eat.

Positioning herself mentally where she believed Valdur to be standing, Belise let herself act as his eyes. “The knives are right above you. There’s a magnetic board running across the top of the window.”

She heard the soft _shing_ of the knife as he drew it into his hand. “Thank you.”

“Plates are in the third cabinet on the left. Do you want a fork?”

“Yes.”

“Second drawer on the right.”

Wood scraped against wood as Valdur helped himself to a plate and cutlery. The latch holding his bag closed opened with a whisper. From within its depths, he drew out something wrapped in paper. Though she knew it was morbid, Belise wondered how big the cut was. Was it like a T-bone? Or more like a chop? How large was her monster’s appetite?

She gave voice to her next thought. “Where did you get it?”

Valdur didn’t respond right away. He unwrapped his meal, his motions slow and precise. “The prison in Vérdan.”

“You drove there?”

“No. I transformed into a bat and flew over twenty miles with this bag clutched in my tiny claws.” When Belise made a little sound of disbelief, he scoffed. She could hear affection in his voice. “Of course I drove.”

“Did they know you were coming? Do you call ahead, when you do this?”

Valdur didn’t respond. Overcome by the quiet horror of her current situation, Belise prattled on. She’d done the same thing when she was eighteen years old. Deep in her soul, Belise thought she must suffer from some kind of masochistic impulse. There was a part of her brain that told her if she could just dig deep enough, wrest enough sickening answers out of the man, _convince_ herself of what he was, then maybe, _maybe_ …

Maybe she wouldn’t want him so much.

“What did he do?” Though Valdur drew in breath as if he was about to reply, she couldn’t stop herself from continuing on. “ _Is_ it a man you’re about to eat? Or a woman? Did th—”

Something hard struck the countertop. The hilt of the knife, she thought. “ _Belise_. Please.”

Sucking in a breath, Belise forced herself to go quiet. Though the way he said her name made every cell in her body hum with delight.

Across the room, Valdur sighed. Paper rustled as it found its way into the sink; metal sang across metal as he took the cutlery into his hands. And then, Valdur moved again. Belise tracked his footsteps, expecting them to fade as he wandered toward the dining room.

But they didn’t fade. They grew louder. When the sound of a china plate coming to rest atop the stone table announced that Valdur was there, right _beside_ her, bile rose in her throat.

He was going to _eat_ with her.

Oh, Gods. She should have left. She shouldn’t _be_ here.

As Valdur settled onto the bench beside her, she heard him pop open the single button of his blazer. He was too far away for her to touch, she knew, but… there, nonetheless. Though her eyes were still screwed shut, the scene played out in her mind, vivid as a painting. She sat with her back to the mullioned glass window overlooking the herb garden; he sat facing it. She imagined the moonlight on his face. The bloodless cut of meat on the plate, surrounded by painted lilies and sprigs of mint.

Her hands trembled.

A heartbeat later, the man spoke. “Open your eyes, Belise.”

Belise breathed out through her nose. “No.”

“I want you to see.” Valdur’s tone brooked no resistance. Still, he sounded… regretful. “I think you need to see.”

“Not after…” Swallowing the sour taste in her mouth, Belise burrowed her nose between her knees. Gone was the vision of Valdur’s face in the moonlight, replaced by the pale, bloodless face of her father as she carved her way into his chest. “Please. Don’t make me look.”

“You can listen, then.” With that, Valdur picked up his silverware. She could hear the squeak of the fork tines on the china, the squish of the knife pressing against the meat. “If you’re so curious.”

_Morctusbraas_. She was going to throw up. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” And with that, Belise listened as Valdur sawed off a morsel of meat and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, swallowed, and wiped his lips with a cloth napkin. He must have found the napkins in the drawer next to the silverware.

Strangely enough… Belise managed to keep her tea down.

“You’re not sorry?” she wondered, now a little lost. “About the fact that you’re eating a man? Or about the fact that I keep asking you questions?”

“The latter. I value your curiosity. But I also value my dignity.” Valdur attacked his “steak” again with the fork and knife. “I’ve never lied to you. I’ve answered all you’ve ever asked. But I will not be made into a spectacle. Not even for you. If you want a ghost story, go talk to your maid.”

Shame tingled under the surface of Belise’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to… to imply that I was getting some kind of gratification from—”

“I know you didn’t.” Valdur’s voice was softer, now. It washed over her like honeyed bourbon, and in an effort to tame the disgust roiling in her belly, she let herself be lulled. “But understand, if you can, that I am not often compelled to talk about these things.”

Belise couldn’t think of a response for this.

“This man was dead long before I got there,” Valdur shared after a few minutes of comfortable silence and several more mouthfuls. His knife sawed against the china glaze, casual as anything. “I’ve never killed simply to feed. Or allowed anyone else to kill in my name.”

“And still, you choose to dine on criminals.” He’d shared that tidbit with her back when she was eighteen. Back when she was desperate for a reason— _any_ reason—to banish his face from her hormone-fueled fantasies.

“It makes me feel better about the whole affair.” Amusement crept into Valdur’s voice. “As much as anything can.”

“This man… what did he do?”

“He killed a child. He was hanged yesterday. Modern refrigeration is a wonderful thing.”

Belise felt the blood draining from her face, pooling in her stomach. “Good Gods… and you put him in your _mouth_?”

“My brother and sister feast on living virgins,” Valdur pointed out. “Is that any better?”

“Yes, but living virgins _throw_ themselves at vampires!” Caught between blanching and blushing, Belise felt dizzy. “You apparently chow down on child murderers! _Unconsenting_ child murderers!”

And all at once, Valdur was laughing. It was the first time Belise had ever heard her monster laugh, and though she fought against the wave of need that crashed through her body at the sound, though she dug her nails into her calves and curled her toes around the edge of the stone bench in an effort to hold on to her sanity…

Gods helped her, she opened her eyes.

Valdur’s plate was empty. Not just empty, but clean, as if nothing had ever been on it. The fork and knife were crossed atop it, as formal as at any restaurant. Valdur was lighting a cigarette, chuckling still. Smoke wreathed his head, clinging in little wisps to his sandy hair where it was slicked back behind his ears. The cold moonlight streaming through the window highlighted the sharp planes and angles of his face.

“Well. I always knew I was worse than my siblings.” Valdur shook his match out and dropped it on the plate. His rusty eyes shone as he looked at her, surrounded by laugh lines. “Ah, but having you confirm it, Belise… my heart is truly broken.”

Gods, she wanted to kiss him. Even knowing what he’d just done, knowing that his lips were only an illusion, she wanted to grab him by his tie, pull him across the table, and press her mouth against his until she felt the neat grid of his white teeth bruising her flesh.

Belise wanted Valdur to _consume her._

Stumbling to her feet, Belise crawled out of the breakfast nook on the other side, leaving her teacup to rattle against the saucer. Surprised by the speed with which she moved, Valdur sobered and turned to look at her.

“I’m going to bed,” she stammered. “That is, I think I should go to bed.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Yes, I think you should.”

Before he could say anything more, Belise turned and hurried toward the servants’ hallway. From there she made her way to the great hall and up the wide, curving staircase, gaining speed with every step she took. But the exercise wasn’t what made her heart pound like it was going to burst out of her chest.

She was sick. So, so sick. And the frightening thing was…

_I will not be made into a spectacle. Not even for you._

_Even_ for her?

Why had her brain chosen this moment to become fixated on those words?

Why was she now pressing her face into the coolness of her pillow, doing everything in her power to banish the beast who’d spoken them from her mind?


	5. Chapter 5

Mornings were always difficult.

Work could sustain Valdur through any number of lonely, sleepless nights. But when the dawn came, his body began to ache with the need to _move_. For every other vampire in Targone, this instinctive restlessness eventually terminated in rest. Each morning in Helìmort pale hordes filled the streets, drifting homeward from salons and movie theaters and dive bars. Doors were shut against the light, locked tight against intruders. Shades were drawn as vampires nestled down amidst their favorite _haremi_ and pulled their blankets up to their chins.

Only Valdur’s door swung open. Only he stepped out into the sun.

Pulling his wide-brimmed fedora low, Valdur abandoned the east wing’s small library and exited into the gardens via a side door. The rain chased his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, and for a moment he stood and breathed deep of Aurden’s clean summer air.

He had missed this place. He should have come back more often. Before Georg died.

Before Belise was forced to take the initiative and seek _him_ out.

Try as he might to hold them back, thoughts of Belise dogged Valdur as he abandoned the small, neat crop of flowers arranged around the east wing’s door for the wild, overgrown arbor of wisteria that led into the garden proper. Soon he was standing in the middle of Chateâu Oncleaf’s rose garden, focusing his attention on the nodding blossoms in an effort to forget the way Belise had looked at him the night before. The tremor in her hands, in her voice.

What on earth had possessed him to eat beside her? To _talk_ to her about the provenance of his meal?

More than that… what on earth had possessed her to _let him_?

With a snort, Valdur abandoned the rose garden for a towering corridor of _cyp_ trees. _Just get on with it. I won’t watch._ He wasn’t sure if he should chalk Belise’s offer up to insanity, good manners, or the stubborn bravery she’d inherited from her father. Either way, it’d been impossible to resist the urge to test her. And the way she’d looked at him afterward, as if seeking to reconcile the horror of what he’d just done with the way he was smiling at her….

_No._

Before the memory could transform into a schoolboy fantasy, Valdur banished it with a shake of his head. He had too many demands on his time. He couldn’t afford to let hope become one of them. Belise regarded him with affection because he was a member of her tribe. Because he was her father’s friend. There were no other reasons.

Still, when Valdur reached the end of the corridor and heard the crack of a branch behind him, against the wisdom inspired by his very existence… he hoped.

Never one for games, Valdur turned around. Beneath the canopy of arching cyp branches, it was still dark as night. Still, he could see just fine. The second his vision focused, he rolled his shoulders back and schooled his mouth into a neutral line.

There _was_ someone behind him. Just not the woman he wished to see.

Like her brother and mother, Lady Galine Sendé had black hair and green eyes. Unlike the rest of her family, her cold gaze seemed to betray a reserved nature rather than an innate arrogance. When the girl—she was about fourteen now, he supposed—got close enough to notice that Valdur had stopped, that he was waiting for her, her pupils dilated. She halted on the rough dirt path, tightening her fist around the handle of her black umbrella.

Valdur relented. Softening his posture, drawing his hands from his pockets, he spoke up. “Good morning, Lady Galine.”

It was a moment before the girl responded. Her tone was cool. Careful. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“You don’t need to call me that.” She was a child. He would be patient. “Valdur will do. Monsieur d’Aeivernais, if you can’t stomach the idea of calling an adult by his given name.”

Galine didn’t have her mother’s eyes, but she had Countess Eldira’s barking laugh. “Gods. My brother is right.” Like Belise, she dug her toes into the loose soil of the walkway as she glanced over her shoulder. “Never imagined I’d say those words.”

“Right in that…?”

Galine turned back to him, tipping her umbrella to rest on her shoulder. Suspicion carved lines into her young brow. “In that… you’re a strange sort of Prince.”

If he had to deal with a teenager this morning, better a frank little lioness than a mewling kitten. “Indeed.”

“At least you can admit it. It’s rare for grown-ups to admit things.” With that said, Galine resumed her walk toward him. Her red raincoat hung open, and beneath it she wore a simple blouse and a mustard yellow skirt. Her white knee socks were splattered with mud.

“Did I interrupt your morning walk?” Valdur motioned toward another avenue of trees, this time fig. “I can go that way.”

“No. I followed you. I was looking out my window when I saw you step into the garden.” The girl stopped in front of him, close enough for him to perceive the acidic nip of her fear over the cloying scent of the cyp trees. She was a trifle taller than Belise. “I want to talk to you.”

Intrigued, Valdur waved his hand, inviting Galine to choose a path. She shook her head. “You first, Monsieur d’Aeivernais. You’re the one with fangs.”

Apparently all of Georg’s good qualities were encoded on his X chromosome. Amused, Valdur started down the path bordered by figs.

“My brother says you’re staying for a few weeks. To help him put everything in order.” Galine’s footsteps were quiet behind him. “He won’t tell me anything else.”

“Is there something you wish to know?” Valdur forced himself to stroll. With his long legs and martial nature, he tended to cover ground at pace that challenged most mortals.

“I want to know more about the _thing_ that did this to my family. Eidron.” Valdur could hear the anger coiling around Galine’s words, like smoke. “I want to know what I have to do to crown him with a silver bullet.”

Ah, the militancy of youth. Folding his hands behind him, Valdur turned his attention to the wet branches overhead. “Well. That is an admirable goal.”

“And impossible?” Galine’s voice hardened. “Is that why everyone’s so determined to keep me in the dark?”

“I can’t speak for the motivations of your family.”

“They think I can’t handle it. Or that I’m stupid. I’m not sure which.” The sound of rustling clothes piqued Valdur’s interest. He turned to look at Galine, only to find her settled upon a stone bench. Her eyes were still on him, unwavering. “What I want to know is… the wall. How did Eidron’s men get over the _wall_?”

“An important question.” Gesturing to the bench, Valdur tipped his head. Galine scooted over, making room for him. Tugging on the material of his trousers, he sat down next to her and joined his hands in the gap between his knees. “What do you know of the border between Targone and Valaast?”

“It was renegotiated ten years ago. If you can call it that.” Heartened that someone was actually taking the time to listen to her—a Prince of the realm, no less—the girl’s speech quickened. “Tavince and Grevaille are larger than they were before the end of the last war. By a bit.”

“By between twenty and thirty miles, depending on where you measure.” Leaning forward, Valdur rescued a sodden branch from the ground. Using the tip of it, he began to draw in the mud. “We reclaimed part of Lit du Ceph during the final push. Historically, we had lost that to Valaast hundreds of years ago. It used to belong to us… to your family, in fact.”

Leaning forward, Galine scrutinized the map he was sketching out in the mud. “And after we won it back, we built the wall. I remember, the last time you came here, your troops were holding the land as it was built. You talked to Papa about it at dinner.”

Impressed, Valdur wondered, “How old were you then?”

“Eight.” Galine met his eyes. Her own were steady, serious. “And I was terrified of you.”

Of course she was. Doing his best to contain the smile that wanted to ghost across his mouth, Valdur glanced back to the map. “We finished the wall a few years later. It’s made of stone. Five feet thick.” He sketched out the dimensions. “Fifteen feet high. With gates here… here… and here.” Without the benefit of narration, he drew a few more slashes. There were six gates in total, each wide enough to drive a phalanx of tanks through. “The gates are steel. Sixteen inches thick. Guarded by men and magic. I supervised each one as it was installed.”

“So how is Eidron skipping back and forth like some kind of dancing spider?” Galine’s voice rose as she surrendered to her frustration. “Are there parts of the wall that aren’t guarded well? A hole somewhere we don’t know about?”

“No.” Valdur tapped his twig against the line that represented the wall. “That wall is my crowning achievement. And after decades of war, it’s the most heavily guarded place in all of Targone. At this point, my father’s government is willing to pay a premium for peace. Not even Helìmort is so secure.”

“Then _how_?” Galine had ceased to fear him. The look in her eyes was both passionate and tragic. “How did Eidron attack my father? How did he manage to escape into Lit du Ceph when Prince Terik’s forces went after him?”

For a brief moment, Valdur considered lying to the girl. But deception wasn’t in his nature, and the part of his mind given to strategy was already shuffling the pawns on the Sendé family chessboard about. Gaming out different scenarios.

Unless a miracle occurred, Belise and Merchon would never be reconciled. But Galine… young though she was, Belise might yet find an ally in her.

And so, Valdur told Lady Galine the truth. Or rather, he shared his suspicions with her, knowing that in this case, doubt and treason were synonymous.

“Eidron and his forces didn’t get in, and they didn’t get out.” Using his stick to bisect the border with a question mark, Valdur allowed his voice to sink into a rumble. “They’ve been here the entire time.”

 

* * *

 

On four legs, Auburn moved like the music Horace d’Aeivernais listened to when he thought no one else was there to hear it. Smooth and swift and full of _joie de vivre_.

Alone, she streaked through the halls of Chateâu Helìmort proper. Out into the courtyard, and up the black stone wall that surrounded the castle. The only soul traversing the sun-kissed streets, she trotted past the elaborate fountains, the statues erected to former military leaders. Though experience had taught her to keep her tail in the shadows, she couldn’t help but jut her face out into the sun. And so her path was winding and convoluted. Up a tree, across the tiled rooftops, underneath a score of windows shuttered against the light.

The port was abandoned. Auburn made quick work of her errand, wading into the shallows in search of detritus from last night’s haul. The vampires of Helìmort could feast on blood, but their _haremii_ required actual food. When her sniffling nose and whiskers led her to the thrashings of a half-dead herring, she dispatched the fish with several keen bites—though she was a calico, there wasn’t a cruel bone in her body—and tucked it into her jaw. Then it was back beneath the shuttered windows, across the tiled rooftops, down the tree and up the wall, this time bearing her breakfast.

Tail hiked high, Auburn trotted through the deserted red velvet halls of Helìmort. She climbed up, up into the tallest tower, where the velvet curtains gave way to yards of yellowed lace and dusty tapestry. Finally, when she stood at the base of the ladder that led to her master’s nest, as she liked to think of it, she transformed.

Human again, her lips curled into a smile. Her master was awake. She could hear his music.

Tightening her right hand around the fish, Auburn leapt on the ladder with preternatural grace and climbed upward, balancing her right wrist against the rungs when necessary. When she came to the door at the top, she hooked her elbow around the ladder and pushed the door open with her left hand. Her ears—feline still—led the way into the attic, swiveling as she sought to locate Horace. Behind the pale ivory georgette of her skirt, her spotted tail ticked back and forth.

Footsteps attracted her attention toward the kitchen. In truth, it was the sorcerer’s laboratory, but it doubled as his kitchen. There, in his threadbare linen robe, Horace was boiling water for tea. His short black hair was messy from sleep, his dark eyes as serious as ever. The shafts of sunlight sneaking in through the high tower windows did delightful things to her master’s face, highlighting the imperious tilt of his nose and making even the sleepy, unschooled line of his lips seem cunning.

Mother Moon, but she adored him. And not with the usual slavish devotion of a collared _felin_.

And thus, the halfling kept silent. Oh, she flashed her master a smile—but she tempered it. Horace wasn’t fond of _loud things_. Loud people, loud places, emotions on full and flamboyant display. Serious and headstrong as the man was, he was also easily overwhelmed. And Auburn could be loud. Like all cats, she was a creature of extravagant emotions and dramatic sentiments. Sometimes it was all she could do keep from leaping into Horace’s lap and kneading her hands at his thighs. More than anything, she longed to press her lips against the soft place at the base of his throat so she could inhale his scent. _Taste_ him. And all of that only because he had taken her in.

Her tail twitched at the thought. Someday.

Someday, she would work up the courage to _purr_ in his presence. To curl up at the foot of his empty bed.

As Horace reached for the tea tin, he uttered a soft _mmm_ in her direction. This was as much of a greeting as she ever received. Shaking her head, Auburn set her fish down on the counter and hurried to thrust her hands into the bowl of clear water already set aside for his daily wash. Horace looked at her in confusion, but she shook her head and began to soap up her hands.

It took him a moment, but Horace eventually understood. Setting the tin down, he wandered down the wooden steps toward his library. The kitchen was elevated above the rest of the main floor, almost a half-floor between the library and the tower loft where his bed was located.

“I’m meeting with Valdur’s secretary at… noon?” he inquired, as he picked up a stack of papers and shuffled through them. Horace glanced in her direction again, and Auburn nodded as she dried her hands with a clean rag. “Anything else?”

Auburn shook her head, and retrieved Horace’s favorite cup from the shelf. The one with the phoenix painted on the side.

“Do you know what his secretary wants to meet about?” Horace set his papers aside and sat heavily on the worn velvet sofa. On the table next to it, his record player spun on. “Usually, I deal with Valdur alone. His other servants never think to bother me.”

Auburn shrugged, and poured water over the tea leaves. She arranged a single cube of sugar and a golden spoon on the edge of the saucer, and carried it all down into the library. The hem of her long, diaphanous gown stirred up dust and cat hair as she walked. Tufts of it stuck to her bare feet. She really should vacuum.

Maybe she could do it today, while Horace was away. The noise wouldn’t bother him then.

Horace _mmm_ ed in thanks as Auburn placed his tea on the low table before him. She then curled up on the sofa at his side, not touching him. Not daring. Twirling her fingers into her long brown hair, schooling her twitchy tail into submission, she watched as the sorcerer picked up a nearby book and lost himself in its mysteries.

Auburn’s neck was bare. Horace d’Aeivernais wasn’t _really_ her master.

But she was a cat, and to her, dreams were as potent as reality.

 

* * *

 

Horace really needed to find a way to get rid of that damn cat.

Seated at an open-air café in Blanc Square—toward afternoon the _haremii_ of Helìmort began to emerge, and it was possible to locate an open restaurant if one was diligent about it—Horace removed his sunglasses and squinted at the sleeves of his black suit. Gods, Auburn shed _everywhere_. Brushing his hands over the material, he watched as white and russet hairs drifted away on the breeze.

Annoyed, the sorcerer fixed his eyes on his wine glass. He wasn’t heartless. Even more than Auburn’s presence in his life, he disliked his own harsh opinion of her. The _felin_ girl had done nothing to earn his ire. Indeed, he couldn’t ask for a better assistant. Having lived with him for two years, now, she’d grown accustomed to his habits. She kept quiet. She cleaned and she cooked. She could read and write, and often organized his correspondence for him. In many ways, she was clever.

It was the naked longing in her eyes he couldn’t stand. As well as the sheer amount of hair she jettisoned from her body.

Unlike his Uncle Jean, Horace d’Aeivernais was about as social as an eel coiled up in its undersea den. He didn’t even like sharing his quarters with a pet. And _felin_ girls were pets. Animals. No matter how often Auburn wore her human form, he couldn’t allow himself to forget that.

Sparing a glance toward his watch, Horace took a swig of his wine. Fuck Nigel Tenin and his fucking hormones. If it weren’t for that pervert, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Nigel hadn’t wanted that black _felin_ , Auburn’s littermate, for her magical abilities alone—though Horace still envied him the acquisition. If Auburn possessed the feral magic of a black cat, Horace wouldn’t have dreamed of getting rid of her.

No… the _real_ reason Nigel wanted Auburn’s littermate became apparent the moment Horace answered his summons. Not at one of the upscale magical pet suppliers, of which there were several in Helìmort, but at another sorcerer’s manor on the edge of town.

“Old Swane’s driving a hard bargain,” Nigel had told Horace in the foyer. His cheeks were flushed. “He’s got two cats left. One of them is a calico—no magic in her at all, nothing to siphon off except her blood. He knows he won’t be able to move her any other way.”

“What, precisely, is he asking you to do?” Horace had asked, impatient.

“Adopt them together.” Nigel had fixed Horace with pleading eyes. “Please, d’Aeivernais. I can’t take them both home. You owe me.”

“Are you serious? I have no use for a _pet_.” The very idea had made _him_ blush. _Felins_ were notoriously clingy. They bonded with their owners in a way that… well. Horace couldn’t help but find it distasteful. But the second Nigel ushered him into a nearby drawing room, where the two cats—in human form—awaited, Horace realized that his old school friend didn’t quite share his views.

The black cat was everything Horace predicted she would be. Rare, powerful, sensual—and fully aware of it. Her ebon skin was flawless, her eyes like opaline fire. The tips of her glossy braids teased tickled her waist, bounced about by the slow, calculating sway of her tail. Lush and plump, a creature of curves and mischief, she rose from the lavender settee and approached Nigel with a knowing look in her eyes. Nigel stroked his hand across her right ear, murmuring a greeting that indicated that the cat would _not_ be used for her magic alone.

Horace’s stomach turned.

Clearing his throat, Nigel indicated the settee. There, still sitting, was the calico he’d mentioned. Compared to her sister, she was slight and shy—though her sea-blue eyes sparked when Horace met them. Settling her hands in her lap, the _felin_ girl straightened as if submitting herself for inspection. Atop her knees, she ticked her long lacquered nails together. She was all nerves, all hope.

Horace wasn’t a beast. The sight broke his heart.

“She’s good-looking, at least,” Nigel whispered in his ear. The black cat was practically coiled around his arm by that point, her tail lashed across his waist. “Since you don’t seem to have a romantic bone in your body, take her on as a maid. Let her sweep up after you. You won’t find cheaper help. All she wants is a bit of fish now and again. They’ll sleep wherever you tell them to, and be thankful for whatever you g—”

“I don’t want a slave,” Horace hissed. “Good Gods, man, listen to yourself.”

Nigel hmphed. “I’m just saying.” He licked his lips. “It’s in their nature to please, you know. Isn’t it crueler to deny them the opportunity to serve a human master? If you don’t take her…”

The cat would end up in a brothel. Of that, Horace was certain. And the sorcerer who had collected her and her sister—more than anything, Horace did not want to imagine that he was a _breeder_ —would profit from it. Even Horace had to admit that the calico was stunning. Her skin was pale and milky, her brown hair rich with light. She had the most enormous eyes he’d ever seen. Unlike her monochromatic sister, the fur on her ears and tail was a kaleidoscope of colors, ranging from the brown of her hair to stardust white.

“You’re taking the black cat, either way?” Horace managed to grind out.

“Her name is Smoke.” Nigel nodded. “And yes, she’s mine. Already bought and paid for.”

_Damn it._ With a sigh, Horace had wondered, “And that one? Does _she_ have a name?”

“Auburn.” The calico bounced to her feet, her smile growing brighter. As she drew closer to him, Horace could see the devotion, the awe already glowing in her blue eyes. The sight made his molars throb with anxiety. “My name is Auburn, sir… and I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be a good girl.” Her grin was impish. “I promise.”

Auburn had kept that promise, and every other one she had ever made him. The girl had served him faithfully, kept his secrets, even caged her own tongue, never asking for more than her daily bread and a spot on his moth-eaten sofa in return. For two years, now, Horace had endured the strange arrangement.

But his patience was wearing thin. Because whenever Auburn looked at him, he could see the shy desire in her eyes. The _need_ that burned within her. She was devoted to him, and she craved his devotion in return. The very core of that cat’s soul—her unshakable animal nature, her damnable innocence—had forced her to imprint upon him. As brusque and cold as he was, Horace was now her own private god.

Auburn was in love with him. At least, her _felin_ heart told her that she was.

To make use of her body would be unethical. To collar her, to claim that which he did not want—not even a demon would stoop so low.

It was time for Auburn to go.

“Monsieur d’Aeivernais?”

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, Horace glanced beyond the rim of his wine glass. Standing before him, dappled by the light shining through the trees, was a young man. Taller than Horace, the fellow nevertheless exuded an air of… not timidity. Reticence, Horace wanted to call it. His suit was dark and nondescript, his tie so skinny that at first Horace mistook it for an optical illusion. Though he appeared about Auburn’s age, the dark circles beneath his golden eyes betrayed a mind plagued by anxiety. Or responsibility. When he removed his hat, his long, unkempt bangs remained in his eyes.

“Monsieur Gustave?” Horace wondered, recalling the name Auburn had written in his diary. When the young man nodded, Horace indicated the wrought iron chair positioned across from his. “From the Bureau de Guerre?”

“Yes.” Setting both his hat and a black leather folio on the table, Gustave took a seat. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Monsieur d’Aeivernais. I have…” With long fingers, Gustave spread his folio open and began rifling through its contents. “Here. Official clearance from the Bureau, with Prince Valdur’s own seal. To verify my ident—”

“Don’t bother handing me anything. I won’t read it.” A mortal waiter approached the table, and Horace indicated his glass before asking the young Bureau employee, “Before we finish here—coffee? Wine?”

Confused, the young man closed his folio. “Er… coffee. Black.”

“Biscotti, as well, I think.” Horace hazarded a stiff smile as the waiter returned to the cafe. “Trust me. Their biscotti is very nice.”

For a moment, Gustave sat in awkward silence. “Forgive me. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“ _This_?” Horace considered his meaning. “The location, you mean?”

“No. Well… yes. I thought you must be a vampire, since you serve the Crown.” Gustave pressed his lips together, and Horace filled in the details. _I thought you’d be immortal, and thus have all the time in the world for me._

“All good things to those who wait.” In truth, the idea of being turned made Horace nervous. “Forgive my inhospitality, but I never see visitors in my quarters. I’m a private man… and very busy.”

“Ah.” For another moment, the young man was silent. “Well. As I’m sure you’ve been informed, I am now Prince Valdur’s Secretary at the Bureau.”

“I don’t care who you are.” When this pronouncement earned him a quizzical look, Horace shook his head. “I keep Prince Valdur’s body in working order. What he _does_ with that body is entirely his business. I’m not his babysitter. I’m not the King. And I am certainly not my Uncle.”

Gustave took a moment to digest these statements. “So… you don’t keep tabs on him.”

“Certainly not.”

“Well.” The waiter chose then to return, and Gustave remained silent until they were alone. “I’ll get to the point, then. Prince Valdur has elected to remain in Aurden for a few weeks. After weighing my options, I’ve chosen to join him there. It will be my first time working with him, an—”

“And you want to know how my Uncle’s infamous flesh engine works.”

Gustave’s eyes, Horace noted, were large and expressive. They reminded him too much of Auburn. “Yes. With Eidron’s men at large, it’s a matter of national security. If something should happen to the Prince—physically, I mean—I want to be able to help.”

With a sigh, Horace traded his empty glass for the fresh one. “I wish you’d told my assistant that. Would have saved us both some time.”

Disappointment flashed across Gustave’s face. “I take it there’s nothing you’re willing to tell me?”

“There’s little I can say without surrendering my head to King Renald.” Horace sipped from his glass. “Besides, the subject bores me to tears. Prince Valdur cannot be seriously harmed. You’re his Secretary, you said? Well, you’ll be addressing his envelopes for the next hundred years. Nothing more arduous than that.” He set his glass down on the table. “No heroics required.”

The other man’s full lips pursed in disbelief. “Even a vampire can be killed. As his servant, I should know what to expect.”

“Behead Valdur, he’ll knit himself a new spine.” With dull eyes, Horace surveyed the few _haremii_ wandering through the nearby market. “Set him on fire, he’ll weave himself new muscles. Dismember him, he’ll…”

“I get the picture.” Forgetting his coffee, Gustave leaned forward. “But he _must_ have a weakness. Something for the men in his employ to be on guard against.”

“He does. And if I ever speak it aloud, or write it down, I’ll pay with my life.” Beset by curiosity, Horace allowed himself to state, “Prince Valdur has a hundred servants. None have ever thought to approach me before. If you’re not careful, word will spread that you’re looking for the chink in Valdur’s fleshy armor.”

“It’s not like that. I just…” The young man seemed to engage in a silent debate with himself. At last, he sat up straight and announced, “My last name is Andrén. Does that answer your questions?”

_Well._ That, Horace had not expected. “Interesting.” He swirled the wine in his cup. “So, I take it you’re looking to distinguish yourself. Earn yourself a patron, perhaps? Rise above the shame of your clan’s recent history?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.” Apparently, Gustave Andrén wasn’t keen on the subject of Gustave Andrén. “I just want to excel at my job.”

“Bullshit.” Gustave blinked, and Horace repressed a mirthless laugh. “You sought out Prince Valdur’s _mechanic_. Tried to quiz him. That takes some balls.”

If Gustave was pleased to hear this, he didn’t show it. “My predecessor was not… properly respectful of the Prince. In my opinion. I just want to understand him in order to serve him better.”

“There are precious few amongst the elite that you’d deem ‘properly respectful’ of Prince Valdur. And I don’t count myself among their number.” When Gustave scowled at him, Horace found himself amused. “You realize what he is, don’t you?”

“The King’s chosen heir.” Good Gods, but the young man was upright and earnest. “The savior of Targone—”

“He’s an abomination.”

A strange, low light flickered through Gustave’s eyes. “That’s treason.”

“I know. And oh, I am _terrified_ of the Prince’s wrath. I would never seek to do him harm, because I like _living_.” Horace indulged in a rare smirk. “But make no mistake… if my Uncle hadn’t gotten lucky? It could just as easily be a demon driving that anatomical engine around. By creating Valdur, he could have damned us all. As a scholar of magic, that’s the shadow that looms over _my_ head.”

Gustave frowned in confusion. “Are you speaking of Prince Valdur’s soul?”

Rather than respond, Horace downed the rest of his wine and considered his options. Valdur would need a tune-up, soon enough. That could easily be done when the creature returned to Helìmort, but… what if he didn’t have to bother with Targone’s great monster just this once?

What if he could assign that task to another? One clever and eager to please?

Aurden was on the other side of the country. The thought alone felt like a cold drink of water.

“There’s little I can _tell_ you about the care and feeding of my Uncle’s creation.” Horace made his decision. “But I’m not the only one who knows how to take care of him.”


End file.
